“Just now. Nothing much.”
Turning their backs on the window, they walked around the side of the house and toward the mudroom.
“Your mother gave me some really solid input.”
“Yeah, about that, the baseball thing. I was thinking you might want to use a kid.”
She offered him a guileless smile. “Are you worried you can’t catch a line drive?”
“I can catch a damn line drive. I played second right through Little League and into high school.”
“Second.” Holding on to guileless, she opened the mudroom door. “I would have thought first given those long arms and legs.”
“Manny played first, Owen played short. But—”
“Oh, so it was Poole to Doyle to…”
“Garcia. We made our share of double plays. But a kid—”
“I want to use kids for basketball, and your mom suggested using another, with Mom or Dad holding on to the back of a bike. Just lost the training wheels sort of thing. Speaking of Owen, is he coming today?”
“He should be here pretty soon.”
“Let’s make a deal.” She finished wiping paws, then cupped Trey’s face. “If, after your mother takes the shots, you honestly don’t like yours, I’ll think of something else.”
“I strongly dislike that’s fair.”
“Good. Now, where would you like to start?”
“Why don’t we head up, work our way down?”
She hung the vest and scarf on the mudroom hooks.
“We should wait for Owen…” Both dogs barked and took off toward the front of the house. “And I think the wait’s over.”
The minute she opened the door, Jones strutted in. He accepted the greetings, sniffed at Sonya’s shoes, and appeared to approve.
“Thanks for doing this, Owen.”
“Hey, who doesn’t like a treasure hunt?”
“No jacket?”
“Got one in the truck.” He stood in jeans with a flannel shirt open over a black tee. “It’s April.”
“We’re going to go up, work down,” Trey told him.
When they started up, the dogs charged ahead.
“Looks like we’ve got a whole crew,” Sonya commented.
“Where’s Lafayette?”
“In her studio. I should get her.”
Owen looked ahead. “I’ll do it. Attic first?”
“Meet you there,” Trey told him as Owen peeled off.
* * *
Owen made his way down the hallway to the small turret, then stopped in the doorway.
She had her back to him as she faced the easel, a paintbrush in one hand, a wooden palette in the other.
She’d set the place up, he thought, pretty much as he’d expected. Not really fussy, but definitely on the girly side of things.
She’d shoved her ton of hair mostly on top of her head and wore a faded, oversized shirt—as a smock or whatever, he assumed.
From her desk, her computer played whale song.
Then she stepped back, angled her head. And he saw the painting.
He could see it wasn’t finished, but what was went straight to his gut.
The mermaid sat on a rocky shore, half turned to sea, half turned toward shore. Her tail—it wasn’t green or blue or gold or red, but all of that and more—swept through the water.
He could see it move in his mind, trailing through the churning blue water and white foam.
Her hair, not quite brown, not quite red, showed streaks of pale blond as it tumbled down her bare back.
He saw something serene in her face, though the artist hadn’t finished her. But something serene as she looked out toward where what he thought might be a blue whale when completed sounded in the symphonic light of the setting sun.
He said, “Hey,” and she whirled around, the brush now held like a dagger.
“Jesus! You scared ten years off me.”
“You looked more armed than scared. They’re starting in the attic.” But as he spoke, he walked closer to the painting. “I thought you did drawings and stuff. Kids books, like that.”
“I do, and other things. I’m working on a book of mermaids—a coffee table book.”
“Right, you said that. You paint them first?”
“Yes, sometimes, but no. No, not like this. I have time to paint here, and she, well, came to me.”
“Blue whale?”
“Eventually. I’ll just clean up and—”
“What’s she holding? The way you have her hands, she’s holding something.”